


A Place For Every Part of You

by Nutkin



Category: Disney RPF, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nutkin/pseuds/Nutkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one else fusses like Joe, who acts like Nick is his pet or something. Time for Nick to rest, time for Nick to get a hug. Time to take Nick for a walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place For Every Part of You

"You're too serious," Joe's always huffing at him. Sometimes it's just a joke -  _so serious, Mr. Prez_  - but there are times Joe actually sounds worried, or maybe just bored.

Nick feels it every once in a while when he's brooding about something and the guys are all tossing jokes around. It's like they're playing keep-away with something he can't quite intercept, lost in their own easy-going world until Joe taps him in. Most of the time that's all it takes – Joe tosses an arm around him or digs an elbow in his side, or just sticks straws in his mouth and acts like a walrus, and Nick snaps out of it. He'll laugh and elbow back and find perspective again, loosen up.

But sometimes Nick just can't. He can't let go of his white-knuckled grip on everything, can't find the space to breathe.

Those are the times Joe changes. He'll grab Nick and push him back against a wall, whisper something that's just for him, and just like that – boom, the game is on. Everything in his world shifts around until he doesn't have a choice about it anymore. He doesn't get to be in control, so he doesn't get to worry.

They're in Ontario this time. It's not a particularly bad show, but enough things go wrong that Nick's on edge, already going over the mistakes in his head and figuring out how to fix them for next time. Not ten minutes after they leave the stage, adrenaline still pumping and people everywhere, Joe's fingers wrap around Nick's wrist.

"Nick," he murmurs against his ear, ducking in like it's casual. Nick can feel Joe's hair brush against his ear. He smells like sweat and cologne. "How you doing?"

Nick keeps his smile in place and his gaze fixed on Garbo's animated conversation with Big Rob.

"Good," he says, but it's like a switch his been flipped; his heart is pounding all over again, fresh sweat prickling in his pits. He doesn't know how Joe can always tell. He's pretty sure he isn't that transparent; no one else notices when he's stressed or worried or just tense from a bad night's sleep. No one else fusses like Joe, who acts like Nick is his pet or something. Time for Nick to rest, time for Nick to get a hug. Time to take Nick for a walk.

"Good. I'll see you tonight," Joe says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He's laughing as he walks away, and turns to look at Nick over his shoulder and shoot him a finger-gun.

Nick rubs a hand over his face, feeling it flush, and smiles distractedly at whatever Kevin yells to him.

*

It's not like he doesn't see Joe the rest of the evening. He's there for the post-show prayer, the ice cream, the movie everyone watches in Kevin's room.

He sits three feet away, periodically screaming and peering through his fingers when something scary happens in the movie, and alternately picking on Kevin and calling him his favorite brother. Nothing is different. Nothing has changed.

Except for _everything,_  because they both know what's going to happen later.

Nick slumps low in the couch most of the night, cock chubbing up in his jeans every now and then without his permission. He keeps the popcorn bowl in his lap and does his best to focus on the chatter and noise around him.

"You getting tired, Nick?" Joe finally says when the group starts to dwindle. It comes out casual and random, but Nick leans forward abruptly, his body primed and ready for any and all attention. "You look pretty beat, man. It was an intense show."

"Yeah," he says gratefully. He would have gone to bed eventually – he doesn't need Joe to tell him – but it feels good to be told, like a reassurance that he didn't misunderstand earlier. "I think I'm heading up."

"Don't let the bed bugs... BITE," Joe says, reaching out to hand-chomp at his passing leg, right at the ticklish spot behind the knee.

"You're so weird, Joe," he laughs, hopping past him and giving a high-five shake to Garbo on his way to the door. He doesn't miss Joe's wink, though, and can't help the stupid way it makes him grin.

*

It didn't start out like this. In the beginning it was something different – everything unplanned and random, just rubbing against each other in the night and taking whatever they could get. They gave each other a hand when they needed it, and when they could grab an extra twenty minutes in some hotel room or another. It was weeks before Joe actually kissed him.

"Open your mouth," he'd hummed, gripping Nick's jaw and tilting his face up. "Let me get in there."

And that was all it took. Weeks of niggling worries about not knowing what he was doing, not being good enough to get Joe off – it melted away. It didn't matter, because Joe knew what to do, and Joe didn't mind telling him.

The rest of it came in time. The more wound up Nick got about things, the more intense Joe would get with him. What he could wear. What he could eat. One time, after a really shitty show in Ohio that had him in a deeper funk than any other to date, Joe ordered room service and fed him every bite of it. Nick sat there with his hands clasped in his lap while Joe lifted it, piece by piece, to his mouth.

"I need to be sure you're taking care of yourself," he'd said, but they both knew he didn't have to explain anything.

Most of the time Joe is just Joe. He picks his nose and wipes it on Nick's shirt, and sticks pens in his ears to get a laugh. He still does the most pointless and irritating stuff, like reenacting the mating ritual of the blue-footed booby, which he insists he saw on YouTube.

Even the other stuff – the touches he'll give Nick sometimes, pulling him close or putting on his fan-voice and squeezes his biceps – that's not the same thing. That's just Joe being his brother, the same as always.

It's only once in a while that he does this, and when it happens it's completely different. Just for them. He takes care of Nick, looks out for him, unravels him. He lets him stop being Nick Jonas, _that guy_ , and just be Nick.

"Nicky," is what Joe always hisses, owning it so much Nick could forget the whole family calls him that at times.

It's all kinds of messed up.

*

When Joe gets back to their room it's past midnight. Nick's sitting on his bed with his guitar, but he sets it on the floor at the telltale click of Joe swiping his key-card.

"Hey," he says, shifting awkwardly. Excitement is already settling in his stomach, keeping him on edge.

"Hey," Joe grins back, flopping on the motel couch. He sprawls casually, like he's about to sit down for some quality X-Box time, and props his sneakers up on the glass coffee table. "Miss me?"

Nick rubs the side of his nose. He wonders sometimes if Joe drinks with the guys in the band. He'd probably tell him if Nick asked. He thinks he might like it better this way, not totally sure where he's been or what he's been doing. It makes it all seem more – thrilling, knowing that Joe has those things he's not a part of, and he still makes time for this.

"Yeah," he answers honestly.

"Stand up," Joe says, crooking a couple fingers. Nick stumbles to his feet, eager and ready. God, he really is like Joe's pet sometimes. He could give Elvis a run for his money.

Joe looks pleased and a little thoughtful as he studies him, taking it all in. Nick can only imagine what he looks like right then: rumpled hair, plaid shirt, dark jeans, big, awkward bare feet.

"Lose the shirt," he says. Nick's face goes hot all at once, but he pops open the snaps down the front and pulls it loose from his jeans.

Joe watches him as it hits the floor. Nick lets out a sigh, too hot inside, too pathetically desperate already. He's strangely aware of how pale his chest is, of the baby fat around his belly-button that no amount of sit-ups will get rid of.

"Unbutton your pants," Joe says after another excruciating minute. Nick's fingers fumble with his fly and yank it open. It gives his dick another few inches to swell into, and for a second he's lost in the impulse to reach for it, give it a squeeze.

"Don't do it," Joe says lightly, like he's reading his mind. Outwardly he looks cool as a fucking cucumber, but Nick can see the tension in his limbs and how he's twist, twist, twisting the ring on his finger. He always keeps it together, though. "Don't touch yourself, Nicky. I get to say when that's okay."

He can't help it; he shifts from foot to foot, a hot twist of impatience burning through him – at the rule, at the injustice of it, at how smoothly Joe can just say crap like that to him – he doesn't even know.

"Can I take my pants off?" he asks.

"Not yet." Joe leans back, and Nick can see the tent of his cock in his jeans. His gaze lingers there, muscles tensing in an involuntary twitch of arousal. "Touch... your nipples."

"Joe," he huffs, mortified, but Joe just lifts his eyebrows. It's always like this: Joe pushing him, testing him, waiting out Nick's knee-jerk embarrassment.

Nick's fingers flex at his sides before he reaches up to squeeze them both. It's like hotwiring a car, the way those points of contact send a jolt through him. He sucks in a loud, sharp breath.

"That's it," Joe says, leaning forward a little. "I know you like that, Nicky. It's okay. Do it again. Show me how good it is."

Nick can feel the blush start at his cheekbones, spreading down his throat as he tweaks them again. He worries them back and forth, each one caught between a thumb and fore-finger. Joe's got his elbows on his knees, hands rubbing together idly, and Nick does his best to not look at them. Not imagine what they'd feel like doing this. He bites his lip as his cock shoots a little wad of precome in his boxers.

"Now your pants," Joe muses. "Yeah, like that. Slow."

He takes his time pushing them down, peeling them off his damp thighs. Joe always likes to give stage directions, but it's not like Nick has any clue how to be sexy. He's just moving in awkward slow-motion as he kicks them to the side, foot catching in the bunched-up denim.

Joe just smiles. If it were anyone else, it would be unbearable. But it's just Joe.

"Boxers, too," he says, pointing. Nick hooks his thumbs over the waistband, pausing for a second before shucking off that last barrier. His dick snaps up against his stomach when he shoves them off.

"Get on the bed."

He clambers up on it gratefully, collapsing on his back as Joe comes up to the foot of it. He strips his jacket off casually, tossing it on the couch, and toes out of his shoes. Nick swallows, burning with the urge to palm at his cock. It's swaying over his stomach, veering just a little to the left, and bobs every time he pulls in a particularly deep breath.

It's clear, though, what he's allowed to do and what he isn't. That's the whole point. He knows exactly where he stands, exactly what he's supposed to do. Everything that always eats at him – how to win, how to succeed, how to get it right – is focused down to one simple task: do what Joe says.

Joe pulls his t-shirt off and swings it around over his head, grinning at him. Nick does his best to smile back, but he's too far gone to think it's very funny. It just seems _hot_ , and when Joe's fingers tug his belt and jeans open Nick has to shut his eyes so he doesn't up and cream himself right then.

"Hey," Joe says, the bed giving a little when he climbs over Nick. "Up here, dude. You're gonna make me think I don't have a future at Chippendale's."

Nick opens his eyes, eyebrows furrowing as he gazes up at him. Joe's stripped down to nothing, arms flexing when he reaches over to touch Nick's face.

"Can I touch you?" Nick asks.

"Nope," he says, skimming his fingertips down Nick's chest. "Just breathe."

Nick's fingers make fists against the sheets, but he does was he's told.

"I'm serious," Joe adds, pressing a sloppy, wet-lipped kiss against Nick's throat. "No touching."

"I know, Joe," he says quietly. He has to swallow then, overwhelmed and overheated, and knows it has to be obvious under Joe's lips.

"Good." Joe straightens up so he's just straddling Nick's thighs. He grins again, a merciful god: "But you can touch yourself."

"Thank you," Nick sighs, not even thinking twice as he reaches to grip his cock. He still doesn't have body hair quite like Joe's; it's lighter, softer, less prickly against his hand as he grips the base and jerks himself.

"Touch the slit," Joe says thoughtfully. Nick braces himself, but his stomach still pulls in sensitively when he obeys, tracing a finger right at the tip of his cock. It's wet there, and it gets even wetter, making his fingertip slick.

"Wow," Joe murmurs, tilting his head as he watches him. "You really need it bad, huh?"

Nick nods, shutting his eyes again as he jerks his fist up the length. It's not that he doesn't do this all the time without Joe, but just having him right there, just having – _permission_ , makes it all so much better.

"Easy, tiger," Joe says, gripping at his hip. He thumbs at the ticklish hollow there. "Take your time."

Nick sighs out a long, slow breath, blinking up at the ceiling as he slows his strokes. Precome is slipping steadily down the head, making each tug a little sweeter. Joe leans in and kisses at the side of his neck, his stomach nudging against the tip of Nick's cock.

The edge of Nick's fist bumps there on a particularly hard upstroke, and he jerks with the sudden fear that he broke the rule. He glances over at Joe, frozen, and Joe seems to figure it out.

"That was all me," he reassures, dropping a warm kiss on Nick's mouth. He reaches down between them and adjusts Nick's grip, pressing the web of his finger and thumb right up against the shaft. Nick can feel the callous there press when their fists slide up together. "There we go."

Nick nods again, focusing dizzily on Joe's face. He looks hot-eyed and eager, but it feels like every ounce of him is focused on Nick. Doing things to Nick.

"Oh god, Joe," he breathes, hips pulling up before he can stop them. "Is this – good? Am I doing it right?"

"Yeah, Nicky," Joe says, and it hits him again, how weird to see him like this. Goofy, ridiculous Joe, suddenly calling all the shots. Telling him what to do and how to do it. "Keep going. Just like that."

"I'm gonna come," he whispers, eyes squeezing shut. His cheeks are so red it feels like they're radiating heat, his skin burning. His eyebrow hitch and suddenly Joe is all over him, tugging his hand off his cock and grabbing at the other one.

He presses Nick's wrist down in the sheets, all surprising wiry strength, and bites at Nick's bottom lip.

"Not yet," he breathes. "Not until I say."

Nick squirms, not to break that hold but just to release some of the reckless energy that's coursing through him. He strains up for another kiss, moaning right into it when Joe obliges.

His mouth feels clumsy against Joe's, but he tries to focus on it, steadying his breaths so he can chase Joe's tongue deep in his mouth, rub up against the ridges of his teeth. Joe lets him set the pace, answering those needy little thrusts of tongue with his own. Nick sighs hotly against his cheek when Joe's grip on his wrists tightens a little. His cock's just hanging there between them, but this – this right here is the best thing he's ever felt. He knows Joe's gonna let him get off, and when he does come it'll be amazing.

Whenever Joe thinks he should.

A couple minutes tick by, lost in that heated, controlled kissing, and then Joe carefully settles his weight down on Nick. His cock slides over Nick's stomach, and Nick's presses into Joe's scratchy, rough pubes. It's so much stimulation that he seizes up, hips straining to fit them even closer together.

Joe moves slowly, grinding down on him in shallow thrusts. He breaks away from the kiss and pants against Nick's face, eyes bright and huge.

"That good?" he whispers. "Say it."

"It's good," Nick breathes, fingers flexing uselessly against the blanket. "It's so good, Joe, oh my God. I can't even deal. You're so—"

Joe's teeth flash in a little grin, his hips twisting just right. "So what?"

Nick shakes his head, sluggish heat flowing back to his cheeks.

"Nick," Joe says firmly, suddenly all business.

Nick presses his lips together and then mumbles in a rush, "You're so good at this. You're so good – to _me_ , oh f— God."

There's nowhere to escape, but Joe just kisses him again, lips achingly soft. He lets go of Nick's wrists, resting his forearms at either side of Nick's face. He keeps his arms pinned where Joe had them, not even thinking of moving them away, but this is even better. He's suddenly got Joe on all sides, pinning him in.

The friction between them picks up then, Joe's hips moving faster. Nick can feel the heavy heat of Joe's cock dragging against his own, fitting together just right, and he arches up unthinking, desperate for more of it. Joe kisses the tip of his nose, fingers digging into his hair. The bed's creaking a little, and Nick realizes in a sudden rush that they're practically _fucking_ , that if he were a girl they _would_ be. It's almost too much for his overheated brain to deal with.

Joe nips at his chin, watching his face intently.

"Not yet," he whispers, pushing Nick's hair off his forehead.

"I'm trying," Nick whispers back, fists digging into the mattress.

"I know. You're doing such a good job, Nicky."

He shuts his eyes, determined not to do anything to make that statement untrue. He's going to be good, follow the rules. He's going to do it for Joe.

"I can do it," he grits out.

When he opens his eyes again Joe's smiling at him. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair falling down in his eyes. No one has any business looking that good, especially not his stupid big brother. It makes something painful tug in Nick's chest.

Joe waits another beat, planting aimless kisses on Nick's jaw, before he finally says, "You can come now."

Nick's whole body seizes up, thrumming with a heady burst of pleasure. He lets himself sink into it, every drag of Joe's cock up against his made so much better by the satisfaction sluicing through him. He did it, he totally did it.

"God, Joe," he whispers, feeling it swell up in his chest, his limbs tingling. "Joe—"

He loses it between them in a rush, each spurt trapped there between their stomachs. His brain burns with the knowledge that he's _jizzing_  all over _Joe_ , making his hips hump up pathetically as he blows the last of it. Each stroke is suddenly sticky, slapping with a gross wet noise when Joe moves against him.

"That good, Nick?" he sighs against his face.

"Yeah," he manages, eyes squeezing shut for a long moment. Joe kisses him again before rocking back to his knees. It's suddenly cold, the conditioned air hitting his overheated skin in a rush.

Joe puts a hand on Nick's stomach, rubbing through the mess there, and then fists his own cock. His head tips back a little as he jerks it, the white, slick sheen of Nick's come making it glisten.

Nick just stares, arms still spread the way Joe left them, watching as Joe looks down at him and bites his lip. He only lasts another minute, wrist snapping with each stroke. Nick's stomach hitches sensitively as his load spatters on his skin, hot and thick.

"Wow," Joe heaves, collapsing back down on him. He rolls them over, hooking one of his legs under Nick's. "That was a good one."

Nick rests his head on Joe's shoulder and nods, breaths huffing against his collarbone.

"I needed that," he finally says. Joe leans in to kiss his forehead.

"I know you did."

*

In the morning Joe tosses him one of his old t-shirts to wear. It's tiny and fitted and a little wrinkled, and smells like Joe whenever Nick moves.

"That's it," Joe says when Nick studies himself in the bathroom mirror. He sidles up behind him, taking in the reflection: Joe's shirt on Nick's body, Joe's hand on Nick's hip. He reaches up after a second to touch Nick's mouth, thumb swiping over his bottom lip.

"God, Joe," he breathes, embarrassed and pleased. It's stupid that he feels so claimed like that; they're not even doing anything, but he can feel Joe all over him, pinning him there in that safe mental place that's just for them.

"Lookin' good," Joe says.

Nick doesn't know if he agrees, but it doesn't really matter. Joe could hand him a skirt and he'd probably wear it, no questions asked.

"The clothes make the man," he intones, reaching for his cologne.

"Oh my God," Joe gasps, all cheap mock-horror. "Oh my God. Hold still. Is that a gray hair?"

"Ow!" Nick ducks away as Joe actually yanks out a strand, holding it triumphantly for a second. "Jerk!"

"Geezer," Joe returns.

They wrestle around in front of the sinks, trading punches and pinches. Joe gets him in a headlock and pumps his other fist, doubling over when Nick reaches over and digs his knuckles into his stomach. When they straighten up they're both ruffled and laughing.

Joe hip-checks Nick as he reaches for his toothbrush, and just like that, they're brothers again.


End file.
